The Vulnerability Of An Optimistic Heart
by bestia
Summary: Mozenrath's past revealed the secret to the boy behind the man.
1. Capture And Induction

Mozenrath stumbled, kicking up more hot sand and grit that burned his throat and eyes. He spluttered, cursing at his own clumsiness and the man behind him who kept an infuriatingly hard hand on his shoulder, urging him forward still. So he trekked on, ignoring the dull ache the manacles clapped on his rubbed-sore wrists induced, just like he trekked away from the burning wreckage of his village, his home, his life. He _had _been growing up in a small town on the border of a neighboring country, but nobody ever went there, as the political and religious differences between their and his people were ripe for conflict. In any case, the relative peace and safety they _thought _they had lived in was rudely shattered when a cloud of war cries, men, horses and wagons descended up on them and their unprepared and sparse defenders. They were immediately overwhelmed.

Mozenrath found himself wondering the same thing as he was shuffled from prisoner to hostage, blindfolded on the back of a horse riding countless hours, to being shoved in the back of a cart with the other survivors of the attack to here. Would his parents ever find him? What of their fate? Would they know he had lived in the chaos following the siege? The atmosphere of forced cooperation didn't help soothe his anxieties. For this, his new home it seemed, was a slave camp.

Nameless faces were moving, always moving, and the slaves were easy to pick out from the slavers. They were miserable men, women and children, with dirty faces and irons just like his. The sounds were hectic, shouts; bids and yells swimming in and out through the little shacks that made up the compound, almost bleached white by the continual scorching heat, waves of it riding low on the sand even after the sun retired for the night.

Mozenrath was herded into a large, fenced in area, jammed ridiculously full of people like him, guarded by a stone-faced men in faded red vests who held long, double edged scimitars. Dwarfed as he was, Mozenrath immediately fell to the bottom of the totem pole. The nine year old ducked a fist that came flying when he bumped into a man, the barred gate locking behind him. It was hot, crowded, a wriggling mass of unhappy people. The man he had bumped into was an extremely thin, sharp angled man, stooped, around 40 or so, with frazzled hair and veins crawling across his tanned skin like spiders. He looked down at Mozenrath fiercely.

In any other situation, Mozenrath would not have taken such treatment, but the chain link of the fence was digging in his back and he didn't quite feel up to confrontation. It was just; he was scared, he wasn't afraid to admit that, should he? He was uprooted, violently, away from friends and family, his home, and who know what staggering number of those he knew were dead. It looked sure he would never sleep in his own bed again, and there wasn't one caring face in the world for him now. His freedom was gone, his childhood, essentially, was gone, and the only thing that held any childish tears at bay was the absolute, no argument belief in his mind his parents, somehow, someday, would come for him, after all, they weren't there at the time of the attack, now were they? No, there was no sense getting his self worked up when it was only a matter of time.

But still...

The man accosting him must have sensed the conflicting misery swelling up inside Mozenrath, because his face softened, and he backed down, no longer bearing down on Mozenrath like a riled bear.

"Look, I'm sorry kid. It's just, this is a bad situation, you know?" His older company said uneasily, sounding guilty and ashamed, but still desperately unhappy. Mozenrath nodded mutely, sniffing, wiping a grubby sleeve across his face to wipe away the apparent tears he hadn't noticed himself cry. They both looked up as one of their guards yelled over their heads, emotionless.

"Heads up, food you grub worms!"

Mozenrath watched as cold-eyed slaves, never meeting the eyes of anyone, handed out rusty, flimsy little tin cups. He was alarmed when everyone pressed to the outside of the inner barrier of the fence, clamoring for food, as it became clear no one was going to make sure everyone got fed if they remained trapped on the inside of the crowd. He felt disgust rise in him, lashing out with his foot when he was shoved, pushed and finally, without care to his well being, cast into a foul smelling mud puddle slipping under the bottom wire. He cursed, and once again felt tears well, but quelled them. What good would they do him? He pulled himself up with as much dignity as he could manage, brushing as much dirt as he could off stiffly. He may be small, but he had his pride.

When he looked up, he was irate to find all of the food handlers were gone. He gazed from face to face. Surely no one would let a kid go hungry? He was surprised when all he got were averted looks. After more than his share of this, he flopped down and crossed his arms over his chest, determined to ignore his rumbling stomach.

"Little thing like you? Had no chance at all, did you boy?"

Mozenrath looked up into a warm, brown face, a woman, hair haphazardly tied up, loose strands falling around worn brown eyes. She was an older woman, who curiously enough, was holding out a tin cup. Surely it was hers? Didn't she want it? She knelt, still holding it out, with a tired smile she spoke to Mozenrath.

"Well, take it. Aren't you hungry?"

"Aren't you?" Mozenrath countered cheekily, eyeing the food suspiciously.

The woman seemed to find his daring amusing, as she laughed.

"Good point. But this stuff is wasted on me, it won't matter soon enough, oh dearie me no. I'm just old, youth like you need your strength for what's come. "

Her smile turned sad, and she closed Mozenrath's hands around the cup for him. Her hands were rough, but still gentle. Mozenrath put it from his mind, however, when he caught a whiff of the stuff inside the container. Sure, it wasn't the most neat or sanitary of concoctions, some sort of dark brown, indeterminable stew, but the smell alone was enough to remind Mozenrath he hadn't eaten in quite some time. Muttering a rudimentary 'thank you' and throwing dignity aside, he slurped it down hurriedly, not really tasting. Hey, at least it was warm. He looked up at her as he ate, squinting in the failing daylight, taking in her dowdy, torn clothes and shoeless feet.

" Are you already a slave here?" he asked between mouthfuls, with the bubbling inquisitive manner only small children have.

"Well yes and no, " she answered compliantly. "Unless you are bought at one of the auctions, you're just a potential slave. But yes, I've been here for most of my life, since I was a little girl. Never was sold, you see?" she patted her right leg, "Bad knee, couldn't work as much as they wanted me to. Wasn't pretty enough to be sold as anything else either."

Young Mozenrath mulled that over, wondering why she laughed so carelessly at such a serious matter. Full, he set the empty tin cup aside, and faced her with an unabashedly open face, asking in all honesty.

"Are they going to kill us?"

In Mozenrath's mind, there was no sense in beating around the bush. If he was going to die, Mozenrath at least wanted to know before hand. It was only natural. The woman's eyes widened, and she looked shocked at her young conversationalist.

"Mercy me, no, you're only here to be sorted, you see. What ever gave you such an idea?"

Whatever Mozenrath might have said in answer was drowned out in a majority silence that cascaded across the compound, and those who didn't immediately quiet were sharply reprimanded. Mozenrath looked 'round for the source, and when he located it, his benefactor's hand went to his shoulder supportively.

She was a tall, impressive woman, cream white, decked in fiercely red skirt, boots and a pearl-bedecked blouse that highlighted the firm line of her shoulders and straight nose. She was a strong red head, shorthaired in the cut of a man. She wasn't beautiful. She wasn't even pretty. She was handsome, a handsome woman with cold, strange gold-flecked eyes.

Her voice ran out like an echoing bell across the compound.

"Okay, people. We'll make this quick. Go where you are directed. Do this and keep your life for one more day."

Then she started, pointing in a direct sweep, having her flunkies that escorted her, thick, emotionless men, to do the same. The guards, who invaded the fenced in area to line them up and move them out, rooted out those selected. There was immediate panic. Screaming mothers held on desperately to the hands of their children. Names were cried out into the air, families, and lovers, ripped apart forcibly. Mozenrath was selected, and stood rooted to the spot. What to do? Resist? Run? Run where, moreover? Then he spotted the woman he had made friends with, walking behind the man he had first met, who was sobbing brokenly, following the line going the opposite direction. She called back, ignoring her fellow adult.

"Go with them! You'll have your opportunity for better things!" Then she was jostled away, out of Mozenrath's life.

For his life was indeed, changing yet again.


	2. Saved

There were others truly in his demographic, all under a certain age, of an average health. They formed a massive chain, feeding into the longest building on the slave compound. Hour passed hour as they stood, legs numbing, watching one person disappear into the small black doorway, then another. Mozenrath's mind, reeling from shock and wild questions without answers, wandered. What of the others who went the other way? What of him? She had promised he wouldn't die, not this way. But could he be sure?

For the billionth time since the sorting, he played with the notion of running. But there were guards, armed men on each flank of the curling line. He'd be run down easily. The closer he got, the better his view of the opposite end of the compound became, as the building was at an angle on the sand dune it perched on. His fear lessened when he saw people walking down the opposite slope, which led to a dune valley full of little, ramshackle houses. But still, there were a lot more people going than leaving.

"In" The right man flanking the door grunted, avoiding eye contact. Mozenrath faltered, realizing he had come upon his turn without realizing it. The door was like a gaping black maw in front of him. His legs shook, and he licked his dry lips. Thankfully, his indecision was resolved for him, when the irate guard shoved him in.

His footsteps were awkwardly loud in the silence of the short, thin hallway. He swallowed the lump in his throat, hands flexing reflexively. There was nowhere to go but forward, and he could see a dimly lit room at the end, though from his position, he could only see the end of a gray steel table and a chair oat its end. He made his way forward slowly, eyes straining in the dark. All of a sudden, he felt the hand he kept on the wall to guide him brushed steel. It was another door, knob-less, and partly hidden.

He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth when he was fully impacted by the heavy, thick smell radiating from the door. His eyes widened and backed up to the wall.

Blood! Overpowering, it filled his mouth and nose, his efforts too late. He gagged and his eyes watered. He stared at the door in horror. It smelt like a slaughterhouse. He felt his stomach heave mightily.

He hadn't seen any cattle come in here...

"Well, come on in." _Her _voice called out irately. It was obvious she was impatient. Hurriedly, Mozenrath scrambled into the room away from the vile door.

Eyes, immediately, he saw the red-haired woman's, and the three guards he saw first accompanying her, of various menace and size. Eyes, on him, judging, scrutinizing. _She _sat across, on the opposite side, hands clasped neatly on the cool metal surface. Her eyes were especially poignant, cool, calm, taking in every aspect of who Mozenrath ever was and ever would be.

"Don't just stand there, bow to your new mistress." She said, reprimanding pointedly.

All lessons of manners, protocol and courtesy fled Mozenrath, and he could only manage a very clumsy looking bow. His face still staring at the floor, his mind fumbled. He should say something. They had to see him fit to live! He had to do...something.

"I...I don't know your name." he said quietly, not daring to look up. He heard, with throat constricting alarm, the hard, quick footsteps that could only belong to one of the guards. He had done something wrong! Then it stopped. She spoke.

"You are to call me Mam, nothing more, nothing less. Is that clear?"

"Yes Mam." Mozenrath said obediently, straightening cautiously. Now he could see there were mirrors facing him, comprising the differing wall. She stood, pushing her chair out on her own, and coming to stand in front of him. Mozenrath opted for the safe choice of not meeting her eyes, looking down. She bore down on him with more power than any man he had ever met. She eyed him, taking in his torn and dirty state. He was small, too, for his age. It wasn't a good sign.

"Remove your shirt."

He looked up in surprise. She seemed to see his hesitation as unreasonable.

"Well, come on. Let's see if you are worth keeping around. You can grow, but if you're hopeless or crippled..."

Nodding, Mozenrath bent his head and un-tucked his shirt from his pants. It was cold, and he was self-conscious, so the last thing he wanted to do was uncover any part of himself. His teeth chattered behind his tightly sealed lips. What if she saw something wrong? Without much trouble, he eased his red and brown stained blue shirt over his head and laid it aside gentle. His too long curls tickled his shoulders, and he hugged himself, cold.

She surveyed him yet again, speaking not for Mozenrath's benefit, but the guards.

"Small, no muscle mass what so ever. How old are you boy?" She asked sharply.

"Nine." he chattered through shaking teeth.

"Under developed. Soft skinned." She sighed. "Do you have any special skills, any trade you might have learned?"

Mozenrath looked at her blankly. His mind was whirring frantically. Would it be worth lying to her? More importantly, would it be safe?

"If I may, Mam," one of her guards spoke up. He was a short, stocky man, of indeterminable age, though it was well beyond Mozenrath's. He had short, cropped, blonde hair, dusted with gray. His eyes were angry, small, se deep in his scarred face. As he bowed, Mozenrath could see the scars were worst on his impossibly large hands, calloused from a life using a sword. "We have plenty more slaves to go through. I personally don't think he's worth keeping around."

Mozenrath stared at him in shock, searching his face. Could he really say that so offhandedly? He saw no pity there, and if he trusted his own standings at that point, he could have sworn he saw the man's mouth tilt in a smirk for Mozenrath.

Mam turned brisk again. She turned her back on Mozenrath.

"Fine, Brutus," she said in a clipped tone, "Take him back down the hall and send the next one in. We have a long day ahead of us."

Mozenrath's heart seized up, and he watched in horror as Brutus strode towards him purposefully. They were going to take him to that room, the blood room. He was to be killed! He didn't want to die! He scrabbled backwards, back hitting the wall, every nerve in his body telling him to run, it was now or never. He looked to the door behind Mam; it had to lead out! He hesitated too long, and Brutus's large hand wrapped around his wrist, immediately starting to drag him back out the door he first came in. He fought, twisting desperately.

"No! Please! I can work, I can! Please Mam!" he called out, seeing his only salvation in her. She didn't even so much as look up, kneeling over a piece of paper with another of her guards.

Brutus's growl reverberated down his arm and into his body as he was jerked violently towards the threshold.

"Come on kid. She doesn't have time for you."

Panic, despair, and the awful truth that he was going to die hit Mozenrath like a sand storm. His feet scraped the floor as he was dragged past the doorway. Brutus was fumbling with the door; hand tight on Mozenrath's wrist. Unknowingly, he reached into the wells of his knowledge, reverting back to his mother's language.

" Нет! Пожалуйста! Я не могу умереть! Я не хочу умереть! " He called out, words thick with the tongue long lost in his memory. _No! Please! I can't die! I don't want to die! _He cried out again, kicking, planting his feet as Brutus attempted to toss him into the black square of darkness. Mozenrath heard the click of steel, blades. The smell of blood was amplified ten fold, and Mozenrath's eyes grew wide. For one heart stopping moment, he was inside, and Brutus had the door shut behind him. He beat on the door, behind him hearing sounds of death, wails, screams.

Then he was out in a burst of sudden light, jerked back through. He couldn't keep up with it, and for a minute, stood blinking confusedly in front of Mam, wondering why he was in the hallway, looking at him in fascinated curiosity.

"What was that you spoke?" she demanded. The guards were there too, looking displeased and suspicious. Mozenrath could see curious future slaves and guards outside looking in.

A spear butt came crashing down inches from him, an angry thump that startled Mozenrath.

"Answer the lady!" Brutus ordered.

Mozenrath's sweat was cold on his brow, and he stammered like an endless brook of information.

" It's the language of my mother's ancestors, I don't know its name. They were from the farthest East, where the waters are covered in floating sheets of ice and the ground is gray. "

Mam turned to the guard on her right. He was a thin, severe man, long limbs like carnivorous insect, with large eyes that swiveled agitatedly from one face to another. His fingers constantly thumbed the blade at his belt.

"Akron, I've heard the refugees from the other side of the border speak this boy's language."

"And yet they don't speak Arabic like we do. We cannot communicate with them. They are stupid, like lost cattle, and they are causing problems left and right." his voice was like wind across impacted sand, and Mozenrath shivered. While Brutus had earned Mozenrath's resenting caution for trying to kill him, this Akron made him afraid, and fascinated. How many men had this particular flunky killed?

"Why can't they speak both their insipid language and speak with us as you do as well?" Mam accosted.

" They are from the other side, Mam, like you said. There is noting but my mother's people there, moved inland and grouped so they can do all their business inside their community. I was taught their language by my mother, but many others during my schooling when I was smaller by our tutor. I choose to speak Arabic most of the time. They never had care to learn it." Mozenrath answered dutifully. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe he could make them see he had a purpose.

"What other languages do you know? Just how much were you taught?" Brutus said jeeringly. The third guard laughed, as if agreeing with him, though he was busy with trying to beat back the curious onlookers at the entrance.

" I can speak Arabic, Gaelic, Egyptian, Greek, Roman," Mozenrath rattled off, feeling optimism and self pride well in his chest. Perhaps there was a point to all that ceaseless stuffy hours in a room with an ancient old teacher.

Mam stopped him. "Enough!" she said sharply. She looked down at Mozenrath, as if seeing him for the first time.

"You display intelligence the other slaves do not have. The education you were privilege to may just be of use around her, especially in communicating with the other slaves. Is the gift of tongues the only talent you have?"

" Mam, anything you need done, I can do it. Just give me a chance, please," he whispered, determined to make her believe in him. On afterthought, he bowed, hoping it didn't look awkward.

If it was to be believed, she actually smiled at him.

"Fine, you'll have your chance." She turned away, striding back down the hall. "Set him to work in the fields. He'll need to be more than intelligence to get sold on my compound."


	3. Friendship

_"Fine, you'll have your chance." She turned away, striding back down the hall. "Set him to work in the fields. He'll need to be more than intelligence to get sold on my compound."_

Mam's words once again played in his head as he stopped his work for a moment, wiping stinging sweat from his eyes and forehead wearily. His arms were throbbing with ache and overuse, and his legs shook from time to time. His throat itched for the water he desolately knew would come much later via the food slaves, and his skin hummed at the pain of being exposed to the hot, desert sun. He looked up at in the corner of his vision; by its position, it was only midday.

He could feel his overseer's eyes on him, especially Brutus's. A confrontation would arise if he rested too long. So he spat a little on his hands and rubbed it in the sand for friction, then hefted up the handle of his axe. On Mam's compound, when not on the auction stage, her slaves were set to work in the date tree fields. Dates, one of the few things that could grow in this climate, with plenty of water of course, were a source of additional income for Mam. It was clever, and if he weren't a victim of her ideas, he would have admired her ambition. The spiny palm trees grew in the southern back of the compound, where potential buyers could not witness their labors. There were hundreds of them, and each one had to be taken care of in a specific way.

There was a crew of women and girl slaves that, in the early morning, would come out with straw and mud baskets, tightly packed to prevent leakage, filled with water. It was their job to see each tree got water, soaking it at its base. It was a long job, but easy, which proved Mam had favoritism for women, or at least some sort of sympathy she rarely displayed for the men.

There was a group of slaves, mostly the older slaves, whose job was it to prevent bugs and pests from destroying and killing the trees. Their equipment was a cloth mask over their nose and little pots of a nasty smelling wax they were to rub down each tree's base, to repel potential attackers. They came out a little after the women.

The entire mass of slaves was put to work when it was time to pick the dates from the trees. It was an all day affair, and Mozenrath was warned he was to eat, drink, and sleep as much as he could the day before, because he would get none of that on Picking Day. True to everyone's displeasure, it was the longest day of his life, and he collapsed like a dead long on his straw mat in the slave's quarters when he was allowed to finally retire for the night. He was picking thorns out of his hands days later.

His job was one of the hardest, in all actuality, the hardest. He was the youngest out this time of day, a job usually reserved for adult males. Despite all of Mam's conservation efforts, trees would die, and the plot they were in had to be salvaged so another could be planted in its place. Problem was date trees remained standing for months after they died. His group's duty was to hack the main part down, struggling through fibrous, resisting tissue with usually dull axe blades. It would take a significantly long time to cut all the way through. But while you were cutting, you had to make sure someone else's falling tree didn't hit you. Warning calls were hard to interpret when called out in the many diverse languages of the slaves. Mozenrath did some of his special work for Mam in this aspect, interpreting when he heard yelled out warnings in all the different languages found on the compound.

A sliver of fleshy splinters inside the half-hacked through tree flew from it's wound to cut across under his eye. He winced, but bitterly knew he could not stop to perhaps stem the flow of blood. Brutus would jump on his show of vulnerability like a vulture to a drying mare. He grit his teeth. Brutus was a man he could fairly say he hated.

He hated him day and night, and his best dreams were filled with thoughts of killing him. It wasn't a stretch, however, to say that Brutus resented him with just as much ferocity. Ever since Mozenrath's induction, when he was so amazingly spared, Brutus had it in for him.

There were days when after the stew, the only type of meal the slaves were given, was passed out, Mozenrath's would be missing. He'd look up to see Brutus smirking, and was immediately determined not to let it faze him, at least not in front of Brutus. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction; that was _his _way of one-upping Brutus. Theirs was a constant trade off of little, mini victories. Mozenrath knew the best way of upsetting the man was by ignoring him.

He believed the source of Brutus's aggression was that he did not believe Mozenrath deserved the second chance Mam gave him. He was supposed to be dead, and didn't believe Mozenrath's linguistic skills were anything special, certainly not cause for any sort of special treatment. What special treatment? He asked himself incredulously. He worked just as hard as anyone else. His job cutting down date palm trees was abnormally assigned, considering his age. He knew it was Mam's plan to get him into shape for the auction stage. The auction stage, the chance for freedom from endless work denied him even till now. But still, there was danger in maybe being bought by another. How could his parents, who were destined to find him after all, locate him if he moved yet again? But he so desperately needed to escape this...

He mulled on it, so absorbed in it that he almost forgot to yell out the warning for falling trees when he finally cut through.

Fortunately, it didn't harm anyone, though it barely missed some of his peers. He was relieved; it would not look good if he killed anyone. His hold on the job that kept him in Mam's favor was not a guaranteed one. It was to be understood that on top of his physical labors in the fields, he was also to report to Mam when conflicts arose. Example? Only last week, an entire bunk of slaves, all related and from the same country it seemed, got ill. None of Mam's doctors or experts could decipher exactly _what _they were sick with, or how to treat it, because of the language barrier. Mozenrath was pulled from his bed, stumbling and yawning, and set down in front of the mother of the group to find things out.

It became immediately clear to him by her language she and her family were from Greece, a language Mozenrath only partly knew. He found out, however, in bits and pieces that she and her family were suffering from a sickness that routinely plagued their villages back home. Fortunately, and to the relief of Mam, who Mozenrath suspected was only concerned in loosing valuable slaves, it was common on the slave compound and a remedy was made. After the woman (Mozenrath learned her name was Piris, her sons', daughters', and husband's names constantly escaping his mind) and her family finally recuperated and were set to work once more, Mozenrath found he had a friend in them. And friends, on Mam's slave compound, proved to be very much the valuable asset.

The next time he looked up, he realized it was later in the day than he realized, and the sun was starting to relent its heartless tyranny. If they were lucky, they might get water earlier than usual. It _had_ been an uncharacteristically hot day. He knelt down dedicatedly in the dirt as he realized he had missed a root. It was to be understood that felling the dead tree was just part one of Mozenrath's work. He also was required to pull up the remaining roots by hand, or trying to lever them out with his axe head.

The last, dried brown root flopped out, and Mozenrath straightened up, dusting his knees, and unenthusiastically tossing it into his basket. Just in case.

"What exactly do you think you are doing?" A voice barked out. Mozenrath sighed heavily, and didn't turn as the owner of the voice came up behind him slowly, boots sliding the sand in front of him. Mozenrath's spine immediately straightened and hardened in instinctual defiance. He gave Brutus a glance, and nothing more, as the guard stormed up to make himself known.

" I asked you a question, kid." He said pointedly. He was in his best guard form; red vest and saber holsters clean and pressed, a fine sheen of sweat over the muscles and scar tissue his thick body was covered with. His face was devoid of any humor, and Mozenrath sincerely doubted it ever was. Foolishly, he wondered what got Brutus honestly contented...

" Tough question, " Mozenrath answered dryly, facing forward, " Though last time I checked, _my job_." He noted with satisfaction he could almost hear Brutus's knuckles loose color.

"See, it seems to me you're slacking. A little...**_punk like you_** couldn't possibly be done that quick." He eyed Mozenrath's work scornfully, lip curling. Mozenrath's first instinctual replay would have been to protest he wasn't so little. He had been on this damn compound for a year and a little more, at least by his figuring. He was at least ten, though he felt much, much older. Was it really that long? He didn't like to think about that, didn't like to picture that giant clock in his mind, ticking away the days his parents still haven't saved him...

"Well I am." He said simply, deciding confrontation wasn't key for his benefit right now; he eyed wistfully the food slaves heading over the dune, buckets full of water, accentuated by deep ladles.

Brutus harrumphed resentfully, crossing his arms tighter over his chest.

"I'll be watching you boy, you'll get no favoritism out of me."

" You do that, " Mozenrath said under his breath as he made his way hurriedly over to the line for water. In any other circumstance, there would be pandemonium, a mad, greedy dash. But this activity was monitored as well; red vested guards stayed a short distance back, chatting with one another, but watching. It was soon to be Mozenrath's turn, and he eyed the water sloshing in the dark buckets with appreciation. Just as he picked up his ladle-full, he saw with a groan Brutus making his way towards him, a smirk on his face. He knew then, with a stone in his stomach, that he would get no water today if Brutus had his way. He was prepared to just drink as much as he could before Brutus arrived, when something strange happened.

"Oh! How clumsy of me!" Brutus cried out in displeasure as water spilled onto the sand, staining it dark, seeping towards his boots. He jerked up the rolling bucket, and waved it in the culprit's face. Mozenrath saw with surprise it was Piris. And she was speaking Arabic, albeit rough Arabic? Since when?

"What in the hell is the matter with you, you stupid woman?" he bellowed. She chattered on in her native tongue, abandoning intelligible language. She waved her arms frantically, as if to convey something. She took the bucket, and grabbed the still surprised Mozenrath and tugged him out of the work area, heading towards the side of the main processing room, where all the dates were stored.

"Hey, what are you doing? What do you need him for?" Brutus protested, calling after her.

One of the guards leaning lazily against the gate that circled the date fields yelled back at Brutus.

"Oh let the old fool go, they're going to get more water."

Once he and Piris were safely out of range of the guard's earshot, though there were still plenty more to make escape only a fool's dare, they stopped. In front of them was a huge well, from which it and it's two counterparts came all the compound's water. Mozenrath looked at Piris in admiration as the woman attached her empty bucket to the hook at the top, leading on the pulley.

He spoke to her in her language.

" Πού μάθατε Αραβικά;? (Where did you learn Arabic?)"

The woman turned at him, and surprised him yet again by speaking Arabic, though it was strained, broken, and heavily accented.

" I thought...It would be, useful?"

She blushed, pleased when Mozenrath praised her.

" Αυτός είναι πολύ έξυπνος σας. Το μιλάτε καλά. (That's very clever of you. You speak it well).

He took the rope from the dark skinned, portly, but kind looking woman and let the bucket fall, and started the slow, arduous process of hauling it back up again once he heard the wet splash of contact with the water below.

He was suspicious, now that he thought about what just happened. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

" Τοποθετήσατε αιχμή στον κάδο σας στο σκοπό, εσείς όχι;? (You tipped your bucket on purpose, did you not?).

She laughed.

" Φυσικά. Εκείνος ο... πίθηκος ενός ατόμου επρόκειτο να σας ενοχλήσει για ακόμη μία φορά. Είμαι ευγνώμων για αυτό που κάνατε για την οικογένειά μου." (Of course. That...monkey of a man was going to bother you yet again. I am grateful for what you did for my family).

Mozenrath looked away, but quickly back again in alarm as the bucket started to slip as he pulled it up over the edge of the well's wall.

" I was nothing" he mumbled, slipping back into Arabic.

Piris smiled, understanding fully or not, and took the ladle from him, filling it up and proffering it to him.


	4. Visitor in the Night

Even at his young age, Mozenrath knew, to some, night was its own ordeal altogether. To the select few, night was riddled with un-pleasantries. When the sun left eh people of the world, it left them unguarded, and cruelly too. In some cases, the darkness was a massive, in conquerable womb of fertility, always pulsing, always living, and always producing the people's worst fears.

It _materialized _them. What did it matter that your fears were illogical or not even physical threats at all? Was reality not what your mind makes it? When it came right down to it, if you _saw _your demons in the shadows on the wall, then they were there, at least adequately enough.

But to Mozenrath, when he saw the final great heaps of scarlet and rose be swept from the sky, he was at great relief as he straightened his back and subsequently dropped his axe. Night was salvation; night was sanctuary. No hard-eyed oppressors could pursue you there; your back outreached the whip in your own bed. Soon, he knew, as Mam's guards begrudgingly hollered to and fro collecting tools, or more importantly, possible weapons, he could be done for the night. He would filter pass in the several lines the food slaves worked in distributing the last evening meal and water rations. Then it was his luxury to perhaps to sit among the dunes close by.

This was where, by tradition, the hardier men and women chose to dine, laughing and eating to late hours as if they were ignorant of their positions as slaves. But Mozenrath knew he would never join their hardened crowd; he was a child and far too much of his own person to be welcome in their ranks. They constantly reminded him of that.

Besides, he knew he much preferred the comfort, security, and privacy of his own slave shack, a luxury in not having to share with multiple others in regards to his special services to Mam. He knew he should feel guilty, but it was not his sort of boldness to invite another into his bunk, if even to soothe his own conscience.

He was jolted by the girl's monotone as she handed him his bowl and cup, prodding him to move on. His musings had left his mind wander and he had passed to the front of the line without conscious thought. He took his serving hastily, and started down the ridged slope to the permanent dune valley in which all of the slave's quarters lay in giant clusters, maintained by guard posts in between.

He would take his evening meal alone, in silence and repose, as was one of his customs and few comforts. He shook his head in an almost fitful matter. If just wouldn't _do _to immerse himself too deeply in with the other slaves. If he started to familiarize with the other slaves, work for a common goal of perhaps being bought and generally adapted the tones of those in similar situations, he might loose sight of himself. He might forget that he _wasn't _like the rest of the slaves; he was different; he was to be saved. It was just a matter of time; he had to keep telling himself that. It was just a matter of time.

The curious way in which the slave's 'homes', if such a flattering word were to be afforded, were set up had a definite purpose, several even. For one, it simply kept the slaves in one place, so if any plans, rebellion or note of unusual discord were to occur, a well placed mole would surely root the trouble makers out. They could be watched, guarded, and kept in lines at all times, while they slept and while they ate.

In another way, being so closely clustered together in their little huts was beneficial to the slaves. Each community among the slave population, built around families and common language ties, supported itself and its members. It was not uncommon, for in stance, for an elderly man or woman inside one of these niches to act as a private doctor or healer. It was a moot point that Mam, officially anyway, had enlisted a small group of her own medical personnel. There was gratification, however, to an injured or sick slave ingoing to someone you did not fear, but trusted, and in that way, they were preferred.

Additionally, there was a sense of large scale collectivism, in which every person bent under the thumb of Mam's rule was included. Naturally, this could not be said for everyone. You were apt to find select individuals with an animalistic sense of self-survival, and that was all they concerned themselves with. They were usually left to themselves, and one was not surprised to find that a slave killed in the night for attempting a daring escape was of that sort of mindset.

Generally, though, you looked out for your neighbor in a genial understanding everyone was in this together. What you had to bear, the same difficulties, trials, and tribulations, you were certain the person next to you was required too as well. Sympathy was well abound, and getting along didn't have to be a solo endeavor.

It was true, Mozenrath had made friends with Piris, and for that he was grateful. To be quite honest, he wasn't sure that, if he had to go in this alone, without the simple feeling of compassion from Piris and her family, he could handle it. He knew he should return her kindness, somehow. It was simple courtesy. She was in her own sort of trouble, as it were. She was pregnant, yet again.

Mozenrath sighed. He could not understand, for the life of him, why Piris and her husband, Rasferiet, a homely, quiet man who was generally good natured, could keep bringing children into this sort of life. He had already learned of Piris's sorrow; she had seen many of children sold away, while she herself was always passed over. The time normally set aside by the gentleness of nature for a mother to enjoy taking care of her children was not guaranteed on Mam's slave compound. Piris would try to forget, try to bury her loss in the business of her daily duties and taking care of her remaining children, but the pain remained. She knew nothing of her children's fate. Were they taken care of? Did they go to good homes? Were they even still alive?

So it confused Mozenrath why Piris and Rasferiet would continue to consciously bear children, knowing what fate they would come to. He supposed it wasn't his place to know; he wasn't a mother or father. However, Piris had his sympathy, though she certainly didn't need it. She was a world class mother who had the hardy body and spirit to carry her unborn children like an ox. Her pace did not slow, and she asked for no free rides.

But what could Mozenrath do for her?

He came upon the door to his own bedroom, and looked about, the absolute quiet and inactivity in the darkness between the shacks confirming that he had taken his time getting here and everyone else had turned in. He sighed and let himself in, the wooden door creaking feebly. He shut it behind him gently, not wanting to harass already weak foundations, and looked about his little home with apathy.

There was a flat, mottled cot against the far away, a pile of clothes and personal items in the sand next to the door. He had risen a month ago from the mattress in disorientation, a little before dawn, realizing another birthday had come upon him unnoticed. According to the scratches he kept upon the wall to mark each passing day, he had been on Mam's compound for a little over/under two years, and should be about eleven.

Eleven. The number staggered him, not because of his growth in years, but the comparison to how he felt. He was sure, that inside, he was much, much older. He felt it in any case.

He sat down to eat mechanically. He knew he should give some allowance for time to find him, but still, where were his parents? How long would he spend here?

A harsh, impatient knock on the door disrupted his thoughts. Who would be calling at this hour? Who would have the energy to spare? Suspiciously, he set his dinner things inside, licking his parched lips, fingers clenching instinctively. There wasn't much else he could do; the person was still rapping on his door, and he'd have to see who it was eventually. He braced his right instep against the door, knowing he may have to force it close if his visitor became overly insistent to come in.

That precaution, however, proved to be a futile one for as soon as he opened the door the slightest of cracks, a quick, strong hand reached in and snatched a handful of his shirt, snatching him back out again in a blur of motion and force. He was slammed back up against the outside of his own shack, and fear made his body stiffen as the wind was knocked out of him. He had only seen a muddled shadow of a face in the darkness of his doorway, but it was enough for him to recognize who it belonged to.

It was Akron who held him by the throat.


End file.
